


All Those Sacred Midnight Things

by ClementineStarling



Series: ... and the Devil walks with Him [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Magic is Real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 16:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4399343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Blackwood is bringing magic back to England.<br/>A series of more or less random snippets, spanning from pre-canon to an alternative ending.</p><p>This is mostly Blackwood/Coward; Holmes has only a supporting role. The fic elaborates a little on his relationship with Watson, who never makes an appearance, and the thing with Blackwood is more of a standing offer. Everyone gets two POV-chapters though.</p><p><b>Beware! This fic contains:</b><br/>Implied dub-con/non-con, references to human sacrifice/torture and violence against women, cruelty against animals, ritual murders, misogyny, mentions of het-relations, SEX (in intensity somewhere between Mature and Explicit), sub!Holmes (non-explicit), aaand... well a lot of <strike>stolen</strike> borrowed ideas, I guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unsettled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/gifts).



> \-- who got me hooked on this pairing. (Thank you! Also for all the great hours I spent with your stories!)  
> I guess it comes as close to an OTP as I've ever managed. 
> 
> So, erm, well, I'm awfully late for this party, but better late than never, right?  
> Hello amazing mini-fandom of Blackwood/Coward-shippers! *waves*  
> Also thank you, viceindustrious and scrapbullet and themeo9 and grim_lupine and all you other guys who wrote such fantastic fic for this pairing! ♥
> 
> My first question to you: I've called Coward - who's got no first name in canon, the poor thing - Daniel, like fanon suggests; but since a couple of you also call him Nicholas sometimes, I wondered are there any ~~rules~~ guidelines about when to use Daniel and when to use Nicholas? Like some secret code? Or is it simply chance? Like throwing a coin or sth? :P
> 
> * Title taken from a line of Penny Dreadful's episode 2.3 "The Nightcomers" which is a reference to bargains with the Devil.  
> (I originally planned to write a bit of a crossover, but inspiration failed to strike)
> 
> The story are also contains some vague references to Robert Chambers' "King in Yellow" (residue of last years True Detective-obsession). It is unbeta'd, so I hope it kind of works and the mistakes I missed are bearable. To all of your looking for karma-points: If you feel like helping me out in that regard, I'd be eternally grateful. ;)
> 
> Last but not least: If I missed anything in my warnings - please tell me!

It is spring, and Coward has everything he has ever dreamed of – a title, an office, a seat in parliament, a position in the order. Wealth, influence, power. And yet the effortlessness of his success irks him. He has been raised to aspire greatness, to be ambitious and never satisfied with coming second place, but it appears he will not have to either, for everything is won so easily, it is almost tiresome. With no battles to be fought, victories are rendered bland and pointless, and triumph – meant to be a moment of exhilaration – leaves but a stale taste in the mouth.

He is only thirty and three years old. Too young to have everything. Too young to be content.

People expect him to marry, start a family, but Coward is not in the least inclined to sacrifice his freedom for the dull duties of wedlock. What he yearns for is the exact opposite – he wants to test the boundaries of his power, push them further, tear them down. The thought is like an itch on the edge of his mind, growing into a sort of impatient, restless longing, that may or may not be invoked by the season. 

He lets his gaze travel from the window, over the river, over the city. The Thames is glittering beneath the Houses of Parliament with the promise of mirrors, endless reflection of the strengthening sun, time cast in filthy water. London has shed its winter-squalor, the black veil of its ever mourning widow-queen, for a new, more radiant look. It is blazing and bright and full of life, and summer will be even more glorious. 

There is so much else to have in this life. All he must do is go looking for it. 

__

It is not yet summer, when Coward first hears of the new arrival to London's society who has become the topic of the hour; of a sudden every salon, every soirée is brimming with rumour, one name is on everyone's lips – Lord Blackwood, traveller, businessman, amateur des beaux arts. It seems he has appeared out of nowhere and taken London by storm. And how could he not – the city thirsts for sensation, and Henry Blackwood offers an inexhaustible fountain of colourful stories. He just came back from the Orient, they say. And: he made a fortune in all sorts of ungentlemanly enterprises; and: he was engaged to an Indian princess once. Every tale, every whisper turns him into more of a mystery, the hero of an adventure novel made flesh. Not everyone approves of course, on the contrary, but what is kindling the flame of gossip faster than disapproval?

“He was at the opera yesterday”, Atherton says, “and would you believe it, a lady actually fainted at his sight. Sadly I was not there to witness it first hand, but the commotion the incident caused was preposterous. When I arrived a few minutes later...”

He continues with the story, but Coward could not care less about swooning women and petty scandal. The one thing he would be interested in does not feature in the narration: details about the enigmatic lord who is the cause of such excitement. So while everyone else gathers closer around Atherton and his silly tale, he stands back and takes another sip of champagne. 

“London must have become an extraordinarily dull place if such malheurs make the subject of party conversation.” It is not so much disapproval but amusement that lies honey-thick in the smooth, deep voice. Coward glances up, half startled, half curious. 

The speaker is tall and expensively, impeccably dressed, a picture book-gentleman in appearance, though something about him is odd, invokes a notion of violence, as if he were a worker or a soldier in disguise, a criminal even, not a member of London's high society. Which he must be, otherwise he certainly would not have been invited to attend Milbourne's party. And yet, the feeling of unease lingers. Coward cannot quite put a finger on it. But he always found to appreciate a bit of danger, a bit of a mystery, and so he deliberately forgoes formalities and the called-for introduction, settles for his most winning smile instead (smiling is an art he has perfected) and replies in lowered tones: “Touché, sir. I agree, the mishap of a woman should never be the topic of conversation. But the gentleman who put the good lady in such a flurry, seems to make for a fine subject of gossip.” 

“Does he indeed?” 

The bored sarcasm is exquisite, Coward notes, a concoction of the same ambivalence as the amused disapproval before, designed to confuse as well as to intrigue. He himself could not have done it better.  
“So it appears”, he replies, allowing a taste of his infamous sardonic grin to flash over his features, a brief sign he reserves for the kindred spirit, but the expected reaction fails to appear. He is still confronted with a blank look and an impassive expression. It is utterly disconcerting, and Coward just has begun to suspect his new acquaintance to actually disapprove of the topic, when he has mercy on him, and asks the follow-up question, Coward has just been waiting for:

“Well then, tell me more about him.”

But by now, Coward is apprehensive, for - obviously - he is smart enough to smell a trap, or even its possibility.  
“There is not much known that does not stem from silly rumours”, he says, dispensing with all gratuitous flourish, “but it can be asserted that he is the second son of a baron, from an old but not exactly wealthy family, and that he made a fortune in businesses of an unknown nature, before living abroad for several years. Recently his elder brother died quite unexpectedly without leaving an heir, so he's returned to assume his place as the head of the family. And his seat in the House of Lords.”

“That sounds hardly like proper gossip material.” 

“Perhaps you yourself could add a few colourful anecdotes about your life?” Coward's eyes sparkle.

For the first time the hard line of Blackwood's lips curls into the shadow of a smile. “What gave me away?” 

There might be a hint of praise in his expression, and to his amazement Coward finds that he would like nothing better than being showered with Blackwood's approval. It is a strange, an unfamiliar thought. Usually he is none to crave for a figurative pat on the head. On the contrary, most of the time it is himself whom he regards as the person supposed to deliver those paternal gestures of consolation, he, who is the undisputed winner of almost any verbal challenge he enters, who is all smug smiles at the envy of his opponents and never at a loss for words. 

“First, I have had the pleasure to make the acquaintance of almost every gentlemen in London, so I know most of the guests at this party. Everyone one has to know that is. Apart from you. And second--” Coward pauses dramatically for his words to take full effect, “they say you are strikingly handsome.”

He is used to the array of reactions such remarks provoke: abashment, confusion, elation, interest. But Blackwood only stares at him without blinking an eye, as if _he_ could read Coward, instead of the other way around, and he waits just long enough for Coward to ponder, if for some unforeseen reason an apology might be in order, before he is delivered from unease once again by Blackwood's reply.

“Which story would you like to hear? No, wait. Let me guess. The one where I killed a lion with nothing but a hunting knife? Or the one in which I set out to retrieve a lost artefact? That one time I stroke up a friendship with a Sheik of Arabia by bringing back his favourite horse? Or rather my encounter with the Indian princess?” From his tone it is quite clear, that he thinks the tales rather droll.

“I must admit I had hoped for you telling me about your studies of Egyptian magic.” 

At last this seems to strike a nerve, gathering from the way Blackwood raises an eyebrow. “So you're with Rotheram's little cult”, he says in what has to be a deliberate insult. The order is, of course, anything but that, hardly a little cult of superstitious people but a society counting some of the country's most influential men among its members, a circle in which true magic is wrought. Surely Blackwood knows that. And surely he has his reasons for such affront and provocation. So Coward holds his peace and waits patiently for the reason of Blackwood's ill temper to present itself.

The lack of a reaction seems to puzzle Blackwood, as if he has not expected Coward to pass a test; he tilts his head pensively while trying to solve the riddle. “This must mean you're Coward's son. Daniel is it?”, he says at last. 

It is entirely too familiar an address, but somehow Coward likes how his first name rolls off Blackwood's tongue, and he just nods and keeps smiling. What else could he do? Reprimand Blackwood for being impolite? Demand to be styled properly as Lord Coward? It seems an utterly ridiculous notion. 

__

It turns out, Sir Thomas Rotheram is about as fond of Blackwood as Blackwood is of him. When Coward asks him about their connection, Rotheram grows pale and has to sit down, the faint shroud of power lingering around him shaken by a nervous shiver, and it takes a moment until he has scraped up the words for a weak excuse of an explanation. Coward is more than amazed by this rather unforeseen reaction. Intrigued even.

It also turns out, that Blackwood is a member of the order himself, however little he might think of it. He shows up one night, uninvited, to observe their ritual with an arched eyebrow and an amused smirk, which makes Findlay so nervous, he lets go of the rabbit he is about to sacrifice, and they have to interrupt the procedure to catch the terrified animal.

Coward is not in the least surprised, that it is Blackwood who retrieves the trembling bunny, without any effort it seems, as if he hypnotised it like a snake. Once it is caught, it does not struggle anymore, not even when he takes the knife out of Findlay's hand and calmly, adeptly slits its throat. 

The blood paints the floor in long, vivid spurts and for some strange reason, Coward thinks of semen as he looks at it. And when his gaze meets Blackwood's eyes, he knows that he reads his mind like a book and he can't help the blush blooming on his cheeks. And he is thankful for the small rush of magic, the sacrifice brings forward. It is scarcely more than a faint breeze, far from the lightning storm they have all read about, but still the first time, something palpable actually happens and naturally it attracts all the attention, and Coward's embarrassment is mercifully swallowed by the ensuing murmur.

Blackwood offers to show them real magic, practical magic. Spells he learned in Egypt, incantations he came by in Palestine, a summoning ritual he was taught in Rome, an evocation he read about in a library in Istanbul, a conjuration revealed to him by a Russian mystic. It sounds promising and dangerous and exciting, and Coward is as much in favour of learning such things as Rotheram is against it.

“We do not practice the Dark Arts in the Order of the Four Temples”, Sir Thomas says.

There is still rabbit-blood on Blackwood's hands when he answers: “Since when is that, _father_?”  
The reply gives his fellow brethren a complete new topic to rattle on about – and Coward an explanation for Rotheram's peculiar reaction, he can finally work with.

He would not have made the connection himself. As he compares the two he cannot find much of a semblance, a similar green of their eyes perhaps, but there's not the same gleam to them, not the same sharp-edged softness, not the same treacherous warmth concealing a keen wakefulness, a gaze to pierce every pretence, every act. 

Rotheram pouts at Blackwood's revelation, quite literally, a childish, unflattering expression; even his anger is dull and blunt and – common. It does not befit a leader, especially in contrast to the air of superiority Blackwood wears like the latest fashion, with a sort of casual elegance. Coward cannot see a trace of doubt in him, not a hint of uncertainty. He has all the bearings of a ruler, a master of men.

__

Coward realises quickly that he will have to choose a side rather sooner than later, that there is either the option of being with Blackwood or against him, and the decision is all but difficult. There is not much still to be achieved by the ways of the order, he has already exhausted most of their means, while with Blackwood, there will be no end to his ambition.

So it is not long after Blackwood's first demonstration of magic, that he calls on him at his residence, which is, surprisingly, much less ostentatious than his reputation would suggest. Not modest, in the strictest sense, but austere, dominated by books rather than lavish furniture or expensive art or exotic souvenirs, and Coward begins to wonder which of the stories told of Lord Blackwood might actually be true.

And again Henry Blackwood seems to read his mind, for the first thing he says, when he enters the salon is “Don't let yourself be fooled by appearances, Coward, there is more to this house than meets the eye.”

And while he would love to hear of the house's secrets, he is too distracted by another dashed expectation to give it much thought: He unconsciously imagined Blackwood to be more casually dressed, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned perhaps or even his sleeves rolled up. Some acknowledgement of the comforts of home, that would have made him more human, but to Coward's disappointment his attire is as pristine as usual.

It also makes Daniel realise that despite all the hours he spent pondering on this man, they are basically strangers, linked only by a few embarrassing moments and casual association. Suddenly he feels like an intruder, and Blackwood does not seem inclined to make him any more comfortable. 

As the butler serves Turkish mocha, black, bitter and sugary, Coward finds himself blushing again under Blackwood's scrutiny.

“So, what brings you here, Daniel”, Blackwood asks over the rim of his coffee cup, as if he has not already guessed it. And Coward feels not unlike the bunny-rabbit, hypnotised by his stare, as he tries to find the right words for his proposal.

“Allow me to speak frankly”, he says, ruffling up all the courage he can possibly muster. “You have quite the talent for drama, you are sharp-witted, powerful, enigmatic, but, when it comes to politics, diplomacy is not an art to be underestimated. Neither are inconspicuous connections. What I am trying to say is: It may be useful for you to have a man in a more exalted position.”

“And you are here to offer your services?”, Blackwood says with an unreadable expression. 

Coward nods, his heart beating furiously.

“Well then”, there is the slightest curl to Blackwood's thin lips, “tell me what you want in return.”

__

Although it is utterly thrilling to serve as Blackwood's spy, it is even more exciting to be his student. 

It has been a long time that Coward has been so eager to please someone. 

Blackwood graciously allows him to attend his rituals. Not the ones he performs for the order, they are just for show, smoke and mirrors, but the real summonings, which are only witnessed by his most loyal of servants, these grim, dangerous men he keeps close, like a guard of cut-throats and thieves and mercenaries, all those thugs who eye Coward suspiciously but dare not utter a word. It is exclusively during these private sessions in the small hours of the night that Blackwood works true magic, magic that makes the hair stand on end and goosebumps erupt on the flesh. Magic that spreads in waves and leaves its audience light-headed and drunk on sensations, sparks dancing on nerves, pupils blown wide, an aroused tingle in the pit of the stomach.

Needless to say that Coward can't wait to recite an incantation himself, and it is every bit as marvellous as he has expected. The magic runs through him like needle-pricks and razors, hot and cold at the same time, silvery pain that dips into pleasure, and then spills forth like spider-webs, wrapping him in their glory, eating at his very being. He senses the trade and the power that comes with it and also the lust lurking inside the ache, flowing through his whole being, and he shivers under Blackwood's keen gaze. Is he imagining the praise in his eyes?

The first time he holds a blade against human flesh, he almost forgets how to breathe. It may also be due to Blackwood standing right behind him, so close their bodies touch, and he can feel his heat through the fabric of their robes, and Blackwood chuckles, as he guides Coward's trembling hand to make the first incision. 

The blood wells up as the skin opens, lines from a steely brush, so beautiful and so intoxicating.

It is then that Coward realises that all he wants to do, is fall back against Blackwood's chest and turn his face towards him, and offer his mouth and be kissed like he has never been kissed before.

He dreams of it, afterwards, late at night, when his hands roam his too-tight skin, even allows himself to get caught in the fantasy in broad daylight; he carries it like a charm, an idea that never fails to conjure a smile to his lips and a spark to the eye, and sometimes, more often that is convenient, it stirs his blood to the point, where he has to retreat for a while to take care of the issue. And if he has always found it difficult to look Blackwood in the face, now it is impossible without colouring like clouds at sunset. 

He thinks of that fantasy, when he kneels before Blackwood during a ritual for the order – another first time – and imagines to kiss his elegant hand, run his tongue over his palm, fasten his lips to the pulse at his wrist, suck at the long, strong fingers. He would service him in any way he'd be allowed and he knows it shows on his face, plain as day.

But Blackwood only stares at him as if he saw something behind his mask of civilisation and good manners, behind the obvious offer even, that is arresting his attention, and does not blink an eye.

He must know, Coward tells himself, I may be a decent enough actor when it comes to plots and politics; I can fool other people, but I cannot deceive him, never him, and still he does not take what I would give. What can this mean but that he does not want it?

And Coward finds that finally he has found the one thing he still craves, the one thing that he cannot have.


	2. Blackwood

It's another night he finds himself poring over books till dawn reaches out her pale fingers and lifts the veil of peaceful darkness, this patient blackboard on which, day after day, week after week, his thoughts scratch and screech like fingernails. His wits might be sharp as a razor, but the Gordian knot in his brain will not unravel, the equation still does not make a lick of sense. No matter how he looks at it, the plan is riddled with logical holes, imprudent risks, unforeseeable chances, and he is growing impatient with his own shortcomings. 

Then, on the other hand, the alternative is impossible.

The alternative would be magic. 

He could make use of it, certainly, at least he knows how to, even knows what exact incantation, what spell, what ritual would achieve him his goal. But that's also the reason he must avoid it at all costs. Magic is, after all, the opposite of trickery. It is not about creating something from nothing, it is a trade. And everything comes at a price.

He should have known from the very beginning that the Gods do not take kindly to those wasting their time; no one had ever led him to believe _they_ were benign or even merciful creatures, and yet he thought himself worthy to call on them and make demands. He still bears the scars of his arrogance, and they still hurt, but the pain taught him a lesson he shall never forget: One does not use magic when there are other means. One shan't ask for aid before having exhausted all possible options. Only fools dabble at spells and enchantments when there are other ways. Less costly ways. 

When he summoned them for the first time, they made him slaughter his dog for his insolence, made him dissect the poor, yelping animal into bloody lumps of meat, while he was sobbing and crying, begging and retching, too, yet to no avail. He was only a boy of twelve then and he loved his dog. To kill it pained him more than it does now to murder some disposable woman.

It was disgusting and heart-wrenching and utterly awful, and it seemed to take an eternity until they considered his debt to be paid. “Now what do you want, mortal child”, they whispered when he was finally done, “tell us” - a whisper that cut to the bone - “tell us and we will grant you your wish.”

The moment is etched into his mind, the taste of sick in his mouth, the stickiness of blood on his fingers, though worst of all, the approving weight of a hand on his shoulder, a feeling that has never truly left him, nor has the rawness in his chest, where their iron claws wrenched from him everything that was good and kind and innocent.

He is not sure it is the reason he does not love, but only desires; it seems however a decent enough explanation for the craving that befalls him, the gaping hollowness of longing, that ever-raging hunger. He wants, oh so many things, small things and large things, solid and fleeting, immaterial and physical, it matters not. Initially he yearned for common riches, influence, status, then for beauty, for pleasure, for power. But with time he began to see like _they_ see, to want what _they_ want, not only to rule but to own people, to collect their souls, spread them out before him like butterflies pinned to a board, and marvel at their pain, their wits, their heartache. Their emotions are to him, to _them_ a feast of colours and flavours and sounds. He longs to take those sensations and create something new, something wonderful. 

A world that won't be quite like the empire the craven old men of Rotheram's cult have in mind, a future they could not imagine in their wildest of dreams. Blackwood has tasted it, the rank sweetness of victory, the bitter pleasure of its price.

To strive for this new order means being ruthless and determined in equal measure, and not every move can be made without supernatural assistance, even though he wishes it could, for gaining things by magic, always means having to trade something in, and Henry Blackwood finds himself terribly greedy. He would rather not part with what he treasures. One faithful companion has been enough.

This is also the reason his ritual murders are more for show than anything else. Though they are not in the strictest sense meaningless, they are not especially profitable either. The value of the sacrifice varies, obviously enough, especially when it comes to hostia humana, the human victim. It depends on youth and health and beauty, significance, symbolism. Killing a beautiful young girl, even a virgin perhaps, is what society deems unforgivable, whereas to _them_ , these women mean little. And how could they, in a world that has scarcely any regard for the fair sex, that, for the most part, treats them like toys and tokens. Their slaughter is merely of symbolic value. Which is not nothing, but not nothing isn't exactly worth the effort.

It is power that counts the most, someone like Coward – male, wealthy, handsome, influential – would earn Blackwood almost anything, but he is selfish and wants to keep him for himself. Which is the crux of it, because apart from the objective worth of a sacrifice – a life taken, a body maimed – there is a subjective value as well: that which is dearest to him who worships is also most precious, regardless all other criteria, his loss is the supreme sort of suffering his masters prize above all else.

He knows they will take him once he must ask for a larger favour, and so he is careful to avoid that trade by all means. He gets all the more inventive for it, goes to lengths he would not have thought possible. Applies science and trickery, bribes and blackmails, plots and schemes. He even fucks the women he picks for his rituals, woos them first, until they're all spoony and pliant and he is the tiniest bit fond of them, just enough he will feel a faint pang of regret when the life runs out of their bodies. It is a meagre sacrifice, but for small spells and simple enchantments it must be enough.

He also doesn't like it much, consorting with women; the courting, the seduction, the act – none of these affairs does hold much of a thrill, they're either plain boring or nerve-rackingly exhausting, and always a nuisance, even the pleasure derived from it is feeble and bland. Nevertheless he plays his part of a lover with the utmost diligence, as one should fulfil one's duties, and he knows enough of romance novels and penny dreadfuls to carry conviction; in a way, the act of the dark brooding lord with the surprisingly warm smile suits him quite well. Or so people have remarked who could see the through the pretence. “Blackwood, you sly devil”, as Percy Rowe put it, expression dripping with envy. 

But Henry had only eyes for another's jealousy, the sudden flare of annoyance, quickly covered up by the usual façade of polite detachment and a courteous half-smile. And he wanted to yell at him, for being a fool to be jealous of a lamb led to the slaughter. Though he could not without breaking character, and so contented himself with a dark gaze, and reverted his attention to the pretty girl in his arms.

In any case, however he uses them (and he uses them plenty), they do slake this violent thirst. For what he thinks of in these late hours as the night already leans towards dawn are not soft curves and breathy sighs, but triumphant smiles and eyes glittering with something suspiciously resembling pride. Submission is only meaningful if enclosing the possibility of resistance. And by resistance he does not mean tears and pleading, but straining muscle and clenching fists, or even an a snarl of defiance– But then, on closer inspection, perhaps he thought too much about dogs this evening.

Lord Blackwood reaches for the wine glass and swirls the viscous liquid thoughtfully a couple of times before he sets the heavy crystal back on the table without taking a sip. He is not in the mood for drinking, red wine least of all, not when all he can think of is sacrifice. Some part of him wants to grab for the letter opener, go to the adjoining room and just shove it through the ribs of the woman who lies sleeping in his bed, and be done with the charade. It would probably be more fun than the other kind of penetration. 

He realises that he's already got the tool in his hand, when there's a knock at the door. 

“My lord, I'm so sorry, but Lord Coward insists...”

He rushes past the footman, a blaze of elegant clothes and agitation, and Blackwood cannot help the smile lighting up his expression. “Daniel.” His voice is a purr. Another thing he cannot help. Coward just never fails to bring out this feral euphoria in him, this sharp-toothed glee. It's like a predator must feel before the hunt.

“My lord, forgive my intrusion”, Coward stutters, oblivious to Blackwood's delight. “You just said, you wanted an immediate report on the meeting, and I thought...”

“You thought it could not wait until tomorrow morning?” Blackwood is amused, even though to a bystander this might not be imminently evident, for Coward looks for a moment as if he's come to his senses and realised what time it is. He is about to begin an apology, when Blackwood has mercy on him and with a gracious wave of his hand bids him to sit.

“So, what is so urgent that it needs to be said in the dead of night, Daniel?”  
He pours him a glass of wine and places it in front of him on the elegant coffee table, before he takes a seat himself, settling in his armchair as if it was a throne, and gazes expectantly at his visitor.

“It's Sir Rotheram, my lord, he...” Coward, the ever so eloquent Coward rummages for words.

“What is my dear father up to this time?” It comes as no surprise that Rotheram is plotting against him again, and still Blackwood cannot suppress the faint hiss in his voice. Somehow this man to whom he owes nothing but his sheer existence, seems not to be able to go one week without trying to thwart his plans. 

“He is planning to have you expelled from the order.” Coward sounds breathless, as if the very thought is so outrageous, it is suffocating.

Blackwood looks at him for a long moment, before he starts laughing. Well, the concern is priceless. Coward appears to be actually worried of what Thomas Rotheram could do to him, a grand master of the Dark Arts and the first among the priests of their cult. Rotheram of all people, that blithering idiot, who would be nothing were it not for his high birth and the old men's club that came with it. He is an inconvenience, that is true, but apart from that he poses no actual threat. 

“Well, don't you fret about the affair, Daniel. I assure you, he shan't succeed with this little plot of his.” Blackwood raises his glass as if this were a toast, and takes a sip from the wine. Even in Coward's presence it tastes the tiniest bit of copper and salt, and this reminder annoys him more than any scheme his father is hatching ever could.

“But he has already some of the more prominent members on his side”, Coward says, apparently not yet convinced of the harmlessness of the conspiracy. “Ambassador Standish for example, and...”

“What about you, Daniel?” It's meant to be a tease, but Coward grows white as paper at his words. “Don't tell me I found a sore point”, Blackwood jokes. There is no one he is as certain of as he is of Coward, but he enjoys the sight of apprehension, even fear too much to simply let it slide.

“My lord, I would never...”, Coward stutters, “You must know that I am most loyal to your cause.”

“So I understand, Daniel”, Blackwood says, “but are you loyal to me as well. For am I not the key to this bright new future that lies ahead?”

“Of course, my lord.” There it is, the blush that Blackwood is so fond of, and the downcast eyes, so pretty in his devotion. Perhaps the time has finally come to exploit his affection.

“Come here”, Blackwood says. It's barely more than a whisper but it carries like thunder through the silence of the house.

Coward stands and comes over, and then he does what seems natural and somewhat odd at the same time, and kneels before him. They have done this in rituals, when Blackwood served as the priest of the invocation, but never like this. Not like it's an actual pledge of allegiance.  
“I would place my life at your disposal”, Coward whispers and he glances up and there is such adoration in his eyes, Henry cannot help himself, but reaches out and cups this handsome face in his palm, the sprawl of his fingers as possessive as a master's ought to be.

“I know”, he says, stroking his thumb over the day old stubble, over his cheekbone and Coward leans further into the touch.

“I would serve you in any way you desire”, Coward breathes, barely audible, but loud enough to drown out the thunderous heartbeat in Henry's ears. 

“Would you?”, he asks with a raised eyebrow and he knows it is a cruel question, before he sees how it makes Coward shrink back from his touch. But now that he's got him on a chain he can yank it, if he pleases, and by the Gods he shall.

“What exactly do you imply, _Lord_ Coward?”, he continues and the grip of his finger is now iron around the other man's jaw. He enjoys the struggle his words invoke, the trepidation. He leans closer. “Surely you cannot mean _that_.”

Coward cannot see his smirk, for he is too close, and he trembles, not an inch away from Henry's lips, and he can smell the fear like the most exquisite of perfumes. 

“I did not intend to offend you, my lord. All I wanted to offer was my unconditional obedience.” 

Blackwood's hightened senses let him feel Coward's heartbeat throb against his hand with the soreness of a wound.  
“I am not offended”, he whispers. “How could I possibly be? Are we not meant to be a bunch of fornicating sodomites? Does not the Devil himself call for such depravity? Why not live up to the expectation?” The grip of his fingers has become vicious, but Coward does not move, does not contradict.

He knows, I want him, Henry realises. Probably he can smell it on me, just like the dog he is. But what he cannot know, is whether I will kill him for it. 

“So, how would you serve me then?”, he asks, breath hot against Coward's skin, yet not as hot as the trail his fingers draw along the length of his throat. 

“My lord, any sin you would demand, every worship you would deem fit”, Daniel replies, “in honour of the Gods.”

“What a dedicated servant you are to the cause”, Henry says.

“To you, my lord.”

“Yes. To me.” And with these words Lord Blackwood leans back in his armchair, a comfortable sprawl of limbs, the red velvet of his dressing gown a sinful contrast to the pallor of his skin. With his dark hair and dark eyes and sharp features he appears like Lucifer incarnate to Daniel Coward, beautiful, he can see himself reflected in the admiration on his pretty face like in the most flattering of mirrors.

“You do know that social conventions mean little to a practitioner of the Dark Arts, don't you, Daniel?” 

How he enjoys the little nod and how Coward bites his lips. 

“I could ask all kinds of bestialities of you.”

“You could.”

“Do you not mind?”

“I shall welcome anything you demand, my lord.”

His smile is pure satisfaction when he confirms their pact. “So it is settled.”  
After all this talk there is still something like surprise in his brilliant blue eyes, Henry notes. How very endearing. He could look at him like this forever. But then he can also imagine even prettier sights.

“Get up”, he says and Coward rises to his feet like a puppet. “Show me yourself.”

Lord Coward looks blank. “Undress”, Henry specifies. 

He observes how Cowards finger tremble, just a little, barely perceivable, when he loosens his cravat, undoes the buttons of his waistcoat, of his shirt, pulls the fabric apart like curtains. His chest is smooth and wide, well-toned. Even more gorgeous than expected. 

“Don't be shy.”

Coward shrugs off all layers at once – jacket, waistcoat, shirt. It is strange, how shedding one's clothes always reveals a different person. Henry Blackwood has not been prepared to be impressed. Nudity is rarely about physical beauty, most of the time it is about vulnerability, about honesty, about submission. But Coward, well, he is different. His ambition shows in the lines of his body, which is not all sharp angles and hard edges like Henry's, but sleeker, more elegant. He is not only pretty, he is breathtaking.

Lord Blackwood does not praise with words, but his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Coward smiles, and it is the most adorable thing, and suddenly it is impossible to resist the urge to touch and Henry finds himself standing and his control slipping. His hand curls around the back of Coward's head and he pulls him against him, against his hungry, greedy lips and Daniel melts into him with more enthusiasm that Henry could have dreamed of.

“Oh Daniel, you shouldn't have come... shouldn't have offered”, he whispers into the kiss, which is all too much teeth and tongue to be in any way gentle, it is a conquest of a willing land, a strange country that has not yet got to known the erratic moods of its new ruler. “You've struck a deal with the Devil.” And this is true on so many levels, for Blackwood might be _their_ envoy on earth, an incarnation of _their_ power, but he also knows that in the end it won't be him who will demand Coward's life, although it will be him who must deliver it. Ultimately he himself is naught but a vessel, a mere tool. And even now, that he is finally laying hands on what he has been wanting all along, he must fear it be taken from him again. And he wants to warn Daniel and he can't.

Not when eager fingers tug at the belt of his dressing gown and tear it aside to mould themselves against his crotch, against the shape of his hardening cock through the silk of his trousers, reverently, and it feels so good, the whole of his pent-up desire finally unravelling, barbed-wire pleasure in his belly.

His fingers dig into flesh, heedless to the pain they might cause, tangle themselves in Coward's hair and yank his head backwards, so he can run his tongue along the line of his throat, over the flutter of his pulse. He tastes the tension in Coward's body, the struggle he keeps barely under control, that shows in the tremble of muscles. Henry understands that indulging such treatment goes against any instinct, and still Daniel endures it without resistance, submits willingly to the animal gesture of dominance.

The thrill of it unfurls into a rush of excitement, heats his blood quicker than the headiest of wines. He wants to bite in earnest, tear through skin, through sinew and muscle, and drink the life from this beautiful creature, copper and salt and sweetness, and it is only when he hears _them_ laugh in the back of his mind, that he stops.

He comes to, one hand around Coward's throat, the other placed against his breastbone, holding him fast, holding him at arm's length, holding on to the last shreds of self-control, air coarse as gravel in his lungs. There is nothing but awe and adoration in Daniel's eyes, as if he can already see past Blackwood's mortal form, past his own miserable existence within corruptible flesh and volatile beauty. A metaphysical truth delivered by the smallest jaunt into carnal desire – Blackwood is fascinated, enraptured even. It is a sort of connection, he has not hoped for, but also one he must dread. He cannot continue this, not now, not without precaution.

He takes a step back.

He registers the glimmer of disappointment on Daniel's face, but puts his forefinger to his lips to silence all possible objections. 

“Not now”, he whispers. “Not yet.”


	3. Holmes

He thinks of Watson, of nothing but Watson it seems. The further the dear doctor is slipping away, the more his silly brain appears to hold on to him. It's some sort of obsession, much like working a case, but without the satisfaction of a solution, for it is not a problem that can be solved; it merely binds him into a state of brooding and aching need. Worst are evenings like this, when Watson is out, having dinner with Mary, and Holmes' imagination is running wild, drawing up all kinds of unlikely scenarios, like a cruel fireworks of associations going off in his head. In his state of madness, he can nearly taste their pleasure, smell their bodies sliding against each other, skin upon skin. His reason tells him he is making it up, that this is not what is happening, not yet, – most likely they are chaperoned by some stuffy old crone – but something inside him still refuses to listen. Whether now or later, it is done, sealed, decided. He is going to lose his friend to some plain governess, and there is nothing he could possibly do about it.

And his mind, his perfect memory, as if to torture him, comes up with the most vivid of pictures. Bared skin, smooth muscle, a dusting of fair hair, those lush, sinful lips. He remembers, how he first dared Watson to fuck. “Call it a medical experiment”, he teased, and Watson, beautiful Watson just looked at him for one excruciatingly long moment, as if he lost his mind, only to grin and comply, spread him open with expert ease and bugger him senseless. That was Watson, always good for a surprise.

They have never had any qualms or reservations about what they were doing. Watson turned out to be every bit as eager as Holmes when it came to trying out new things. He seemed equally pragmatic about it, too. Sex became a recreational occupation like drinking, smoking and gambling, an easy way to relax after a day of work. Holmes had never had any reason to doubt the functionality of their arrangement – until Mary came along, and suddenly everything hung in the balance.

Watson did not even appear to understand his problem. “What is the matter, old boy?”, he asked when confronted with Holmes' bad temper. “It's not like I'm not interested anymore.” And he let his finger trail ever so lightly over Holmes' collarbone, a teasing gesture that never failed to stir Holmes' interest. So what could he have told him then? He could hardly have confessed to his jealousy, to the fear of loneliness, the pangs of disappointment. They had never promised each other anything, had never considered their agreement anything than practical, had they not? Watson has any right to chose a more bourgeois lifestyle over their bohemian existence, a wife, a home, perhaps children, things normal people would want. And yet...

And yet it feels like betrayal.

The pain is new, and while at first Holmes has looked at it with his usual curiosity, eyed it like a particularly rare bug, it has grown into a larger nuisance than the ever-present boredom, for it never seems to take a break. It comes bubbling up from every concoction of drugs he takes, stings even through the ache of a boxing injury, no wonder it cannot be appeased by work.

Not that Holmes has given up on trying. It is either that or lying on his bed, wrestling down fantasies that are arousing and hurtful at the same time. Also his skills are direly needed, for Scotland Yard can make neither head nor tail of the ongoing series of murders.

They found the third victim this week, Jane Gray of Whitechapel, 21 years old. Like the other two girls she was gone for a fortnight, lost without a trace but for one last letter, that spoke of happiness and great prospects and a bright future with an unknown, handsome, rich husband, until she turned up dead in the crypt of a church. Executed. Slaughtered. A mangled corpse amidst a red sea of blood, limbs twisted, ribs prised open. It was like nothing Holmes had ever seen, gruesome and yet somehow beautiful, like a strange flower, a work of art. Her blood was still vividly red when he entered the scene, and the symbols and glyphs that covered the paper white walls, seemed to dance mockingly before his eyes. He could not shake the feeling the room was harbouring an echo of her heart-beat, a faint thrumming of a pulse, even though it must have been merely his own blood rushing in his ears, and a touch of dizziness at the sight of the torn body. Which was especially unsettling. Usually he was not in the least squeamish, but this time it took a lot of self-control to stay long enough to memorise the writing on the walls.

At first he could not decide whether it's gibberish or not; all he recognised was a repetition of a Hebrew sentence: מנא, מנא, תקל, ופרסין – count, weigh, divide. And although the ominous phrase appears to be the key to this particular riddle, and he has been able to decipher some other symbols, he is far from solving it. The expression does not make any sense, and there is no prophet Daniel around to explain. He hates to admit it, but for once he is none the wiser than Lestrade; and were it not for the gravity of the crime, he would be intrigued. 

The murders are by no means the work of a madman; on the contrary, there is a criminal mastery to them, Holmes has never encountered. They are like pieces of art, planned en detail, and executed with the utmost diligence by a highly educated, outrageously clever individual, perhaps even more than one. They are neither crimes of passion, nor – as Lestrade likes to assume – simple dabblings in Satanism. Holmes is certain that there is something about them that evades the eye, something lurking under the all-too ostentatious display of cruelty, and it drives him insane, that he still has no notion of what it might be.

Apart from the crime scenes, there aren't a whole lot of leads. Most prominent among them perhaps the letters the victims wrote. Although they are, without doubt, in their own hand, they resemble each other almost like peas in a pod. At first glance they seem to be a product of dictated words, but then, at further inspection Holmes sees the small, personal differences, allusions, signs that indicate the contents of the letter have been merely suggested. Suggested however by someone very, very convincing.

Holmes tries, again and again, to imagine this man through the girls' eyes – attractive, charismatic, cultivated, a positive Prince Charming with a rough edge – and fails every time. He can only envision him as a monster. If he were religious, he would call him something along the lines of devil, demon, spawn of hell. He isn't much of a believer though, and the earthly version of such a creature would simply be a stone-cold killer, a pervert, a psychopath, which is not exactly a solution to the puzzle either, but at least some sort of clue to what might be behind the terrible spectacle.

If he could only concentrate, instead of constantly being distracted by fantasies of Watson's escapades, or of the comfort of his touch. Only a couple of months ago, it would have been just natural in situations like these, to go knocking on John's door and complain about being stuck. And Watson would raise one perfect eyebrow and look at him from these clever blue eyes, then pour him a brandy and say, almost gently: “I see that you need a bit of unravelling, old boy.”

And oh, the good doctor has been such an expert at getting him unravelled. He has learned quickly where to push and to pull, what it is that Holmes needs to fall apart. A bit of rough, a bit of control, and the great detective is putty in his hands. 

Holmes imagines himself, bound and shaking with tension, sensations of pleasure and pain mingling, and Watson's soft voice, telling him, how well he is taking it, and what a good boy he is and all kinds of filthy endearments. It never fails to unwind him, to bring him down from whatever theoretical heights his mind tends to climb, free him from this labyrinth of speculation. For a while everything is quite simple then, the raw scratch of air in his lungs, the acute sting of the riding crop fading into a dull ache, becoming indistinguishable from the tightness of arousal, the erratic sparkle of nerves. And afterwards, when his brain is fuzzy and his body all limp with satisfaction, he would sleep like a newborn for once and wake with the best of ideas.

He honestly cannot imagine to solve a case anymore without a little help from his friend.


	4. Coward

For months Coward has dreamed of the moment, Blackwood would claim him and mark him and make him his, but he imagined bruising fingers and sharp teeth, a brand, a whip, perhaps semen, not Blackwood's own blood mixed with ground coal. Though maybe it is only befitting that he puts a spell on him instead of earthly shackles, maybe it is the best representation of their bond. For Blackwood has not laid a finger on him since that early morning hours months ago, when he stopped by his house, when they were so close to-- Coward does not even dare think about it. Blackwood has forbidden it. He also has not allowed any more visits outside of order meetings and prearranged lessons. All the intimacy they have shared during these long weeks stretching into months were the effects of enchantments and summonings; that was how their minds touched, when their bodies could not, when they were alone with the spine-tingling sensations the rituals woke in their flesh.

Now at last the time of waiting seems to be over. 

Coward shudders under the light brush of fingertips on his back, the slow burn of unfolding magic, as Blackwood draws the glyph. 

“It will be painful”, he warned, “but it is the only way to keep you safe.”  
And Coward just nodded, mesmerised by the idea to finally have his heart's desire, to finally belong. He should have known, that Blackwood was none for idle warnings. 

It takes a moment for the spell to break through the skin, but then it stings like acid, and, seeping deeper, it burns as if his very soul was on fire, and only the cool, calm hands on his shoulders keep him from shattering into a million pieces. Coward has never known such pain, such exquisite torment, it wakes screams and cries and wails that have slept inside his chest, that now curl and twist and rise, and oh he does scream beautifully.

Even after Blackwood had told him that protection came at a price, he envisioned the ritual as a bout of mad passion, thought of pain that blends into pleasure, of a rush of arousal to carry them away into nameless, unexplored regions of desire. He has seen Blackwood leaning over him, a darkened shape of condensed want, possessing him, taking him not only with his magic, but also with his cock.

When he comes to, belly-down on a soft bed, he is not spread open for his lord's pleasure, but simply laid down to rest. His limbs are weak and heavy, so heavy it seems they sink and soak into the mattress. “Did I fall asleep?”, he mumbles, and even talking takes effort. Then, memory returns and panic comes bubbling up: “Did it work? Am I... did I...”

“Hush”, Blackwood says, who sits as his side, raising these gorgeous, long fingers to push a strand of hair out of Coward's face. It is such a loving, caring gesture, it nearly makes Coward's heart stop.  
“Everything is alright.” He runs his hand gently through Coward's hair, over his nape and down his shoulder. “You've passed out. Just at the climax of the spell. It sometimes happens, that the moment the pain breaks, the spirit gives out and the body shuts down.” 

There is no reproach in his voice and yet Coward feels like he's failed him. “I am sorry, I did not...”

“Shhh”, Blackwood says again, leaning down to press a kiss to his shoulder. “Do not worry, you did magnificently. There is nothing to be ashamed of. It is only natural to faint when the pain becomes too great to bear. Rest now. The sooner your strength is restored, the sooner we can exploit your new state of protection.”

__

The glyph is nearly invisible on the cream of Coward's back. He would have expected it to be swollen lines of an angry red, like the mark of a branding iron or welts from a whip, but it is more of an intricate ornament, silvery wire-thin traces, like old scars that barely stand out against his pale skin. It isn't ugly, quite the contrary, it's rather becoming, pretty even, and Coward wonders if he has to thank Blackwood's skill for that or his mercy, or perhaps his vanity, for the way his lord's fingers trail his back exudes the pride and admiration of someone satisfied with his handiwork.

“Beautiful”, he whispers, and this time the fire raised by his touch is purely the heat of passion.

Coward can see the blush of arousal bloom on his chest as Blackwood's hands leave the mark and run over his sides, over the sensitive length of his flanks and come to rest just above the hip bones. Blackwood has turned him towards the large mirror, Coward used to inspect the state of his back, so he is utterly exposed to his gaze, naked as he is, and not only is he seen, he can also watch Blackwood watching at him.

“Look at yourself, Daniel”, Blackwood says, his breath searing on his neck, “do you see how there is no way I could not want you? With your perfect body and your wanton soul. See how you stir at my praise, so ready, so eager...”

And indeed, Coward's untouched cock is already half-erect and growing harder by the second, and he is not sure whether to be embarrassed or elated by the fact, that the sheer presence of Blackwood is enough to make him hard, that his voice and the possessiveness of his touch is sufficient to evoke such a reaction in him. 

Blackwood's fingers flex upon his side, and Coward does not only enjoy the slight pain, but also watches mesmerised in the mirror, how the digits dig into the softness of his flesh, and how Blackwood eyes glow like embers over his shoulders. He does literally look like the Devil, Coward thinks, but then Blackwood – as if to prove the point – yanks him backwards, so he pressed flush against the length of his tall frame, and he can feel every ridge of muscle, every angle of bone, and also the obvious hardness in his trousers, and Daniel can't help but moan. 

Even though Coward knows that he is protected now, Blackwood's smile is still a little too sharp to be entirely reassuring, and goosebumps erupt on his flesh, once he dips his head to lick along the curve of Coward's neck, just where the beat of his heart flutters feverishly under the fragile skin, his blood thrumming with need. He's waited so long for this, he has feared not to function properly, but now the opposite seems to happen – his body responds all-too readily, so eagerly even, he must worry instead, that one stroke of Blackwood's hand might be enough to undo him.

But Blackwood who reads every change in his pulse, every bat of an eye or flex of a muscle like a page of _The Times_ , breathes in his ear, not to fret, to just take what he is given, and then his right hand glides further between his legs and grasps him and pulls, and it's the sweetest madness.

__

That first time he shows him his own pleasure in the mirror, stroking him until Coward is frantic and helpless and lost in the sensation, until he spills silvery-hot over Blackwood's hand, and his knees buckle, and he is only held on his feet by Blackwood's grip and his burning eyes. Reverently Daniel licks his own come off these elegant fingers, when his lord raises them to his lips, swallows them into his mouth, without averting his gaze still reflected in the glass, bathing in the affection of Blackwood's expression. And when Blackwood uses that self-same hand to grasp his jaw and turn his head and claim his mouth in a kiss, it is just like Coward always imagined it, and better.

Henry also understands without being told that Cowards needs to express his gratitude, and has him kneel, – another fantasy come true – allows him to press his face against his lean, muscular, still clothed thigh, so close to the cock pushing against the fabric, so close to his goal. He wants to kiss it and lick it and suck it and swallow it, this gorgeous flesh, worship his lord's desire for him, rejoice in his arousal. And Blackwood indulges him, opens his trousers and lets him savour his cock, taste the heavenly weight on his tongue, relish the faint resin-bitterness of skin garnished with the salty honey-drop of precum. 

It is perfect – the stretch of his lips as they curl around Henry's flesh, the scarceness of air as he is pushing into him, the commanding hands in his hair that guide him further, then the slow change in Blackwood's breathing – Coward tries to concentrate on it growing heavier and heavier, despite all the difficulty this presents with him in his current position, but he is so keen not to miss any little sound or sign of pleasure, that might escape his master during his worship, not one groan or one small tremor; he wants to memorise every sublime detail of the moment, the twitching sensation on his tongue, the rush of salt, the ripple of orgasm. Wants to keep it like a flower pressed between the pages of a book.

When Blackwood finally withdraws from his mouth, Coward is already hard again. 

“Well, aren't you a greedy little thing?” Blackwood comments with a pleased smile, that to Coward is like the sun, blinding, burning, divine, and he pulls him to his feet and drags him onto the large bed, which, unsurprisingly, they won't leave for a good long while.

__

Blackwood takes care of him in a way he never knew he wanted. Never knew he needed. He splays him open, slowly, gently, like a beloved book, reading his wishes, exploring his desires, only ever one chapter at a time, but persistently, until he has taken him completely apart. He is not exactly tender about the act itself, but every time he is about to cross a threshold, he - in a way - asks for permission (which usually means that he makes Coward beg for whatever it is, he wants to do to him). He always waits for the eager black-spill of pupils, the low whimpers and broken moans, the _yes_ and _oh_ and _please_ , and Coward never disappoints him.

In the beginning, he merely teases him, eyes hot and heavy on his body, but his touches too feathery to bring about any relief, until Coward cannot take it anymore, and begs and pleads to be kissed and fucked and released, the sweetest, filthiest things falling from his lips as he lies desperate under Blackwood's hands, and his master is ever merciful. 

With time their game becomes more elaborate, more twisted. Coward asks for bonds, for punishment, for humiliation, and Blackwood indulges his every whim with an attention he reserves exclusively for his lover's needs, makes him crave the pain nearly as much as the pleasure deriving from it, helps him understand the importance of balance, of discipline. 

Though whatever treatment he chooses to inflict upon him, or better: whatever Coward has him do, he never fails to hold him afterwards, pull him close into strong arms, into the unquestionable fondness of his embrace, and Coward never feels more loved than in these blissful hours.

__

Henry's touch becomes a drug, becomes the air Daniel is breathing. He cannot exist without it anymore. 

“Do you not think I am beautiful?”, Coward asks one Sunday afternoon, after hours he has spent stretching naked on the crumpled silk sheets, trying to seduce Blackwood into having him, taking him, but to no avail. Henry just sits beside him, propped against the head of the bed, nose stubbornly buried in a book, and does not pay his attempts the slightest bit of attention.

“Beauty”, Blackwood says, “it irrelevant. It is nothing but society's idea of order, of virtue. We are not like them, we do not heed their silly concepts.”

He then looks at him, at the long slopes of elegant muscle, the milky, smooth-shaven skin, and his fingers rise to trace the curves and lines and angles of his body, and he adds: “But yes, my dear, you are indeed beautiful.”

“Why won't you have me then? Am I not enticing?” He lets his legs fall open to display all of his wanton glory, and Blackwood sets down his book at last, and Coward revels in the hunger rearing up in the star-dark eyes. 

“You shan't tempt me to regard you as my plaything, Daniel”, Blackwood growls as his hand – wide, strong, possessive – descends upon his thigh in a sprawl of ownership. 

__

Blackwood tells him of her one night like he would tell a bed time story. They lie curled into each other, and Coward draws mindless circles on Blackwood's chest, and Henry seems to sense the question on the top of his mind. “What is it, Daniel?”, he whispers into his hair and kisses his forehead. Sometimes he is like that – gentle, and Coward basks in his affection.

“I keep wondering, how it is possible that Rotheram is your father. It seems so unlikely... and your mother... Would you tell me about her?”

There is a long stretch of silence until Blackwood answers.

“You know what Rotheram has to say on the matter. It's what they told me when I was little. That my mother was a powerful practitioner. Though not powerful enough to survive my birth, they said. I never understood, how that was possible. If she had been such a mighty witch, how could she have succumbed to the cruelty of nature? A life for a life, it seemed such a profane fate.  
When I reached adolescence I longed all the more for an answer, but my so-called father would give me none. He was weak, too weak for magic, too weak for power, even too weak to decide whether he truly accepted me as a son. He was neither hateful nor caring, only indifferent. He never spoke of her, however desperately I begged him for it.  
So finally, I made decision which was – at the same time – extremely stupid and very brave. I copied a ritual I found in one of my mother's old books. My Latin was scarcely sufficient to understand what I was doing. And how could I? I was only a little boy, was I not?  
But _they_ heard me, and _they_ came...  
Shadows, dark like holes in the fabric of existence, and so beautiful it hurt. I could only imagine their true shape, my powers were not nearly enough to summon them onto this plane in a more corporeal form.”

“And then?”, Coward asks breathless.

“And then they fulfilled my wish and showed me my mother.”

“They _showed_ you?”

“Yes. Everything. My conception. The delicacy of her flesh, the trembles of her pleasure as Rotheram fucked her like a beast possessed, how her body arched into his embrace. A ritual is never just an orgy, it is always a trade; he bargained for power, she paid a debt. And thus they were only vessels, mere channels, and their mating to be a symbolic act, alluding to the relations of Samael and Lilith. I don't think he gave much thought to the consequence, but my mother, oh she was aware what kind of a deal she had struck. Women always are, for they must pay the steeper price.”

And Coward remembers what Blackwood told him once, when speaking about the choice of a sacrifice, that he prefers to kill men, for they believe themselves safe, and the top of the food chain, while women are always afraid, even the bravest among them, because deep down they know they are prey. He thinks, he understands now where the notion comes from.

“They showed me her death too, you know”, Blackwood continues, his gaze empty, unfocussed. “How the magic was leaving her, once I slipped from her womb, how her life was running out of her body, in a brilliant red stream.”

Coward does not know what to say, he waits, the flat of his palm pressed over Blackwood's heart.

“They said that I was the coin she paid for youth and beauty and a very, very long life, and that – therefore – I was theirs, the child of the Blind Dragon. You know, the irony of it – that by calling on them I myself closed the circle my mother had begun, I sealed my fate as their tool without knowing; I became what I was meant to be. Predestination is a curious thing.”

There is nothing of the pride, that usually resonates in Henry's voice, whenever he talks about his power, his role in their scheme. Only bitterness and resignation.

And Coward feels elated about this proof of trust and his chest feels raw, as if crowded with suppressed sobs and unshed tears, and he swears a silent oath to do everything he can to share Blackwood's burden, help him carry it, keep him safe from many-faced creatures and needle-toothed beasts and tattered things. He once promised to give him everything, and he still means it.

__

The day that will put all their efforts to the test is drawing closer, and Coward, who has never feared failure, who even wished for its possibility once, grows ever more nervous.

“I don't see, why it must be him”, Coward says. He has studied the great detective and has found he dreads him more than anything else, which is peculiar, for he has gazed long enough into the abyss to know the kind of creatures lurking in the dark. Perhaps it is a sign of fleeting sanity that he cares less about them. Perhaps he's already accepted, that he cannot escape them anyway. But their plan can still fail; and if there was one person in London who could foil it, it would be him. “Why Sherlock Holmes?” 

“Because my depravity must be beyond doubt”, Blackwood explains, “because I must be beyond saving. Only then can I become the monster they fear, the Devil himself. Holmes will prepare my stage, draw the curtain to our play. He will be the narrator of our little story, our unwilling prophet.”

But what if something goes wrong, Coward thinks but dares not say it aloud. Instead he feels affirmed in his decision to devise a safety net of his own, to use all of Blackwood's teachings, all of the power he has earned, all the knowledge he gathered to set up a contingency plan.


	5. Holmes

He is not sure he'll ever get the scent of fire out of his nose, the sickly sweet stench of burnt flesh that – for an eternity of terror – he thought to be Watson's. He stumbled through the rubble, dazed, head buzzing, the beat of his heart slowed down by fear. Nothing on his mind but blood-curdling panic. The feeling of dread has not left him, not after it turned out it the smell was nothing but pig-meat and his doctor was – against all odds – still breathing, not even now that Watson is in the hospital, and it is pretty much guaranteed that he will live. It seems as if somehow the improbability of such a lucky outcome has taken root in his brain and he cannot shake the sentiment that he could wake every moment to a much harsher reality.

He never considered himself superstitious but perhaps things change, perhaps he has been woken to the supernatural, for whatever rational explanation he finds for Blackwood's moves, there is always something not quite right, as if some irrational residue is missing from the equation. And Holmes will be damned if he's not contemplating every thinkable option. He must not let his intellect be constrained by the mundane – and be it only for the sake of understanding his opponent.

So he consults the order's spell-book, lays out the items he's taken from Rotheram's secret chamber, the lion's tooth, the eagle-feather, the cattle-bone, the human hair. The book also advices the consumption of a draught of nightshade “to cleanse the doors of perception”, which is hard to come by on such short notice, so Holmes opts for another psychedelic concoction from his stores he tried once and found to his liking. 

Drawing on the floor is, much like scribbling on the walls, a somewhat entertaining, playful business, an occupation that calls forth the inner child, and Holmes soon loses himself in the task. So much, the voices in his head almost come as a surprise. He cannot make out what they say, but he knows, the time has come to let some blood, to seal the spell, and as the fluid drips hot and lurid on the lines of the circle, he begins to see: images, puzzle-pieces, visions. The room blurs before his eyes, a train of events slotting together, falling into place. But again, something is missing, he can sense it at the tip of his fingers, just out of reach, if only he stretched a little further...

“Give up, Holmes, this is a riddle you cannot solve.”  
The words are clear, clearer than any before, and the sentence is new, too. Is this his unconscious speaking? Or could it be actually Blackwood, talking to him? And their meaning... Is it ridicule? Disappointment? Incitement? It must be the latter.

“But you wanted me to, didn't you?”, Holmes answers.

“Yes I did.” There is approval in the voice, satisfaction. It is closer now, as if not only inside his head, and Holmes realises that he cannot move a limb, that he is paralysed within his pentagram, and then the presence forms behind him, a dark shape in the fabric of the room, like a hole, like a bottomless pit, and he cannot turn to see, and he cannot decide whether he fears more to be blind or to behold. 

Fingers touch his neck, grave-cold, and he shivers.  
“Widen your gaze, Holmes, allow yourself to see.”  
Blackwood's voice is a caress, sick and wrong and oh so good. Holmes wants to lean into it, wants to be overtaken and ruled by its darkness, sink into its smooth oblivion. And while he thinks this, the fingers warm on this flesh, become alive and hot and resemble Watson's, and it is like coming home.

And the curtain of reality falls apart, or perhaps it is his sanity, for what appears is a beast, or a woman, frightfully gorgeous --lionbirdsnakebeautyruin-- Holmes' mind stumbles at the sight, but strong hands hold him steady as her topaz-eyes rest upon him, gentle and hungry at the same time, and the creature speaks, not English, but he understands nonetheless: _Henry_ , she croons, _do you bring me another present?_ And her smile is all needle-teeth when she licks her lips.

“Forgive me, my lady, that I come empty-handed, but I can assure you, my friend Sherlock here shall make up for my negligence in the very near future.” 

Holmes cannot look away as the picture forms, not inside his head, but here, in between the three of them, a dead body, a waxen face, and he wants to shy away from the truth of it, and Blackwood laughs behind him, inside him, and the scene changes again.  
“Steel your mind”, he whispers, “we are bound together on this journey...”

The leaden clouds wear Watson's face before they break against the mountain tops like waves on the shore. Holmes gasps for breath, but there is no air, and panic rises inside him, rises like black stars into strange skies. Henry Blackwood is all around him now, an armour of determination, shielding him from the dreadfulness of the place, and its sheer beauty, and its power that rushes through him like a drug high. And he wants to fall into it, into a fever of excitement to swallow him up, an all-devouring yellow fire, his sign in the earth and the sky and the fabric of nature, stitches to mend the tatters. Everything is whole, and everything is torn apart.

“Death”, Blackwood whispers, “is only the beginning.”

The room is cold, the vision gone, but there is still someone kneeling behind him, holding him, and either he is impossibly strong or Holmes is simply weak, exhausted. It does not matter, he has to tolerate it either way. He has never before allowed someone to touch him like this, no one but Watson that is, but somehow it feels right to lean into the reassuring strength of a strange body, into hard angles and wiry muscle, inhale the scent of life and of power. The strong hands are gentle, he could lose himself in their touch.

“You know that I can give you all the excitement you want, and all the catharsis you need, Holmes”, Blackwood says, “you never need be bored again, nor wound up so tight, your brilliant mind gets all tangled. I could deliver you from these evils.”

A tempting offer of sorts, but Holmes has seen – and cannot forget, not even in this befuddled state of mind – how Blackwood's new order will be built on a pile of corpses, and that among these dead will not not only be executed politicians, but also brutally slaughtered girls, and he cannot condone that, it would go against everything he has ever believed. And Blackwood feels the answer through the tips of his fingers, in the faint flex of muscles, or perhaps he can really read his thoughts. However he does it, he understands without words, and lets go, and Holmes is alone in the room. And all that has just happened, might well have merely been a dream.  
__

It is over. The empire still stands, Blackwood plan has been thwarted. He lives, Irene lives, while the villain is swinging from the chains of Tower Bridge, hanged at last by an irony of fate. A narrow, though complete victory. And yet, something does not feel right, Holmes thinks as he stares out into the sky, where inky clouds are gathering like a huge tidal wave rolling towards them, twisting into familiar faces and strange creatures. Perhaps he has dabbled in drugs one time to many. Watson always warned him, he was putting his sanity at risk. 

“A storm is coming”, Irene mutters beside him as the first bolts of lightning flash on the horizon. 

_We've still got a moment_ , Homes wants to say, but the wind freshens, belying such words. Within mere moments the sky darkens, and the bridge creaks beneath them as if coming to life. And out of the blackness crows emerge, or perhaps ravens, corvids in any case, a whole swarm, impossibly many, strange birds with polished stone-eyes and gleaming steel-beaks, and Holmes watches how they circle and cluster around Blackwood, a whirlwind of wings, a black feather vortex.

The sense of foreboding is suffocating now, the air too dense to breathe. It takes but the blink of an eye, a shiver of the world, a slight shift in reality, then the birds are gone and Blackwood with them.

“What--”, Holmes says stupidly, unwilling to believe his eyes, rooted to the spot. There is something stirring in the back of his mind, at the very fringes of his consciousness, something suppressed that he still refuses to let in. He does not move, until Irene grasps his arm, and when he looks at her, her eyes are wide with fear. The storm is already upon them.

“Let's go, Sherlock”, she says and he can make out the faintest tremble in her voice. She, who is ever as cold and calm as glacier, is shaking with nerves; and this at last wakes him from his stupor.

They have just reached the bridge's tower when lightning strikes. A blinding flash, sun-bright and sky-wide, splitting the world in two, the noise of clashing air erupting like a wave around them, then followed by another, similar sound, a great explosion. They hold on for dear life while the earth quakes and the tower trembles and everything falls apart.

“Gunpowder, treason and plot...”, Holmes thinks aloud when he finally looks down, “Of course they had a contingency plan. How could I have been so blind as to miss it?”

Beneath them, the Houses of Parliament burn in a pinkish hue.


	6. Blackwood

When he wakes this time, his body is stiff with the wooden sensation of broken bones and the rigour of death is still lingering in his muscles. His skin feels clammy, his tongue fuzzy. There is no glamour in resurrection, even less if it's real.

Something else is different. As if he is charged, electric. He can feel the power pumping through his veins, the prickling in the tips of his fingers. One would imagine it to be divine, but it is only alien, intrusive. He is no longer alone in his body. _Everything comes at a price._ But this is not the moment to dwell upon the cost of survival. It is the hour to rise again and to claim his reward. 

It is the third day and the dust cloud of Parliament has not yet settled, neither has the blaze been put out. The funeral pyre that was Westminster Palace still smoulders with his offerings, and the sky is still cast in the sulphur light of a thunder storm, the hellish gloom of another dimension spread upon the world. 

London has gone mad with fear, panic is walking the streets, a spectre of upheaval that parts around him like water. So many faces, all frozen in terror, and no one dares look at him, much less stop him. They just let him pass with down-cast eyes, too afraid to greet their new ruler with anything but submission.

He can see their souls now, flames in the lantern of their bodies, bright and dull and good and wicked. He sees the practitioners among them too, small-time street magicians and palm readers, charlatans and herbalists. He sees the creatures lurking in the shadows, hungry and desperate beings, and the true sorcerers, witches, night-comers, and he knows all of them are at his beck and call, and the day is nigh he will summon them to be his legions.

_I am He that liveth, and was dead. And behold, I am alive forevermore, and have the keys of hell and of death._

Triumphant laughter has begun to seethe within him. There is just one thing left he must do before ascending the throne of his empire. He reaches out with his new powers, reaches out to find _his_ spirit among all the lost souls, still anxious he might be dead. It is easier than he expected. The sign of his protection shines like a beacon in the falling night. 

They have put him in his old prison cell, amidst his scribbles and symbols, which are glowing now that magic is pouring into this world through the torn fabric of nature and the cracks of reality. Coward is tracing them with his fingers, bewildered and reverent. “You did it”, he says as he turns. "You are alive." It is obvious that he has not slept a wink, he is pale and hollow-eyed, but he too is gleaming, radiant with this unearthly force they have summoned, shining with pride and admiration – and love.

A flicker of apprehension sparks inside him. What if he is still in debt, despite the countless bodies of the land's elite buried under the rubble of their rule? What if they demand one more life, the only life that counts? He rummages inside his heart, for the first time uncertain of himself.

But Coward just smiles at him with the usual confidence, not a shred of doubt in his mind, and Blackwood thinks, that for now, his trust must be enough for both of them. It takes but a lazy wave of his hand to burst the door open and snap the iron bars like twigs, and Coward's grin widens as he steps out of the cell into a new future.

 

~


End file.
